


Fill the Vacant Peg

by apliddell



Series: Your Many Tendencies [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Black John Watson, Black Sherlock Holmes, Domestic Fluff, Domesticity, F/F, F/M, Femlock, Fluff, Lesbian Sherlock Holmes, Misunderstanding, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Pre-Slash, Recreational Drug Use, Sherlock as a musician, Sherlock's Past, Sherlock's Violin, Victor Trevor - Freeform, black femlock, lesbian john watson, slowburn, the beryl coronet, the noble bachelor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-13 15:23:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16020677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: "I think love is both easy and impossible to have. Nearly impossible. The thing about love is that it’s easy to feel, it’s dead easy to feel. But it’s difficult to do. It is hard to perform love."





	1. Chapter 1

“There you are!” John tosses aside a book as I enter the flat and rises to meet me near the door, “You look excited; did you find her? We’ve had a delivery while you were gone.” 

 

“Oh good, it’s here!” Hang my coat on the hook. “Of course I found her. I knew where to look for her before I left the flat.” Go into the kitchen to check that the champagne is chilling in the fridge. “Do you suppose Hudson has got one of those little platforms you put a cake on?”

 

John shakes her head, “Their sugar thing.”

 

“Oh right. Hmm. Should we leave the cake in the box, do you think?”

 

John considers a moment, then rummages in the cabinet til she finds a serving bowl and plate, both heavy white crockery. She upends the bowl and sets the plate on top so that the plate’s base is resting snugly around the base of the bowl, “Ta-da!”

 

“Clever!” Dig scissors out of a drawer and snip open the string tying the cake box shut. 

 

John peeps over my shoulder when I open the box, “Ooooh, it’s beautiful! What kind is it?”

 

“It does look properly matrimonial, doesn’t it? It’s called The Rosette, and there’s chocolate sponge under all the flowers.” Ease the cake out of the box onto the little platform John’s made for it, “That does look nice. I should probably set the table. I don’t think they’re far behind me.”

 

“Who isn’t?” John gets down our mismatched champagne glasses and rinses the dust off them at the sink.”

 

“How’d we end up with flutes  _ and  _ saucers? Actually, when did we buy any of these?”

 

“You’re evading me, tricky! Why are you making a party? Is it for the case?”

 

Try and smile inscrutably, “You’ll see.” 

 

“Oh go on, Sherlock!” John tugs my sleeve, and I go all tingly in my arm, as if she’d actually touched my skin. “Tell me something! A little something! Did you solve it? What happened?”

 

Rub my wrist, “You really don’t know? Isn’t it obvious?”

 

“Sherlock!” John takes hold of my sleeve just above my fingers and jiggles my arm, which ought to be dreadful but is actually quite nice, “What happened?”

 

“All right, we’ll do it together.” Pause and let John groan at that. She’s smiling, so I continue, “So. Robert St. Simon and Katie Doran are all set to get married. They’ve got the tailcoat, they’ve got the big diamond, they’ve got the Meghan Markle knock-off wedding dress. They’ve got the tactfully curated guest list. They turn up at the church, and…” 

 

“And then they get married.” 

 

Lose my train of thought watching John fold a napkin into a swan, “Erm. Yes, they get married. And then what?”

 

John gives the swan a tug and shakes it back into a napkin again, “And then they go off to the reception, and Katie gives the rest of the wedding party the slip and disappears for three days.”

 

“No, you’re leaving bits out. Think back to how Robert told it to us, and tell it again.” 

 

John screws up her face and folds the napkin into a rose, “The bit where she dropped her bouquet? Does that mean anything?”

 

Bite my smile, “Does it?”

 

“She dropped her bouquet, and the lady in the pew picked it up and handed it back to her, and then for some reason, she came over all squeamish and bolted the first chance she got.” 

 

Nod encouragingly, “For some reason…” 

 

“The bouquet lady?”

 

Nod even more encouragingly, “Katie went into the church wanting to marry Robert, and she walked out of the church married to Robert, but not wanting to be, and that has something to do with the bouquet woman. Now how could the mere sight of this person cause such a strong reaction?”

 

John is quiet for a long moment as she folds the napkin into a very neat triangle, “Was it a sort of speak now or forever hold your peace thing? Was she in love with the bouquet woman?”

 

Nod, “Yes, and even a bit more than that.”

 

“They’re already married!” Downstairs the buzzer goes, as if to punctuate the triumph of John’s deductions. 

 

“Oh, that’ll be them, then. Or him. Someone! John, do get the champagne out, will you? And find the cake knife.”

 

“Am I right? Sherlock?” John calls after me, but I bound down the front steps, two at a time without answering. 

 

It turns out to be Robert, and he drowns out my greeting rather morosely, “This is a joke, isn’t it? I mean it’s got to be?”

 

“A joke?” Begin to ascend, so that he won’t see at once how much he’s annoying me. “What do you find funny about it, Robert?”

 

“Funny nothing!” Robert blusters as he follows me into the flat. “It’s a goddamn humiliation is what it is!” 

 

John peeps out of the kitchen to see what the fuss is, then comes to stand beside me when she sees Robert raving. Not that I was afraid of him in the slightest, but it is nice to have John at my elbow. 

 

“I don’t see what’s so humiliating about it. It was an honest misunderstanding. You remember my partner, Doctor Watson, of course,” I try and wave Robert into a chair, but he doesn’t budge. 

 

“Of course  _ you  _ wouldn’t! You,” he checks himself, to everyone’s relief. “I know my Katie, and I know there’s no way she’s actually a-” The buzzer goes again, and Robert falls silent, except for the grinding of his jaw. 

 

“I’ll just get that,” I catch eyes with John to see that she doesn’t mind, and she doesn’t, so I fly off down the stairs again, quicker than before because I don’t want to leave John alone long with a man showing distinct whiffs of shoutiness. 

 

At the front door, I find Frank and Katie, hand in hand under a large yellow umbrella, both looking a little nervous and more than a little giddy, “Hello you two! Come in!” Step back to let them in, and Katie hugs me as soon as they’ve collapsed their umbrella. Sometimes it’s horrid when clients hug me, but this hug is okay. “Congratulations,” I say when she lets go of me. 

 

“Thank you!” they sing out in unison, then look at each other and beam.

 

“Robert’s already here,” I warn them. 

 

Katie looks resolute, but laces her fingers with Frank’s and nods, “Good. I really ought to tell him face to face. I want him to hear the whole story straight from me.” 

 

“By all means, have at him.” Bounce up the stairs ahead of them and throw open the flat door, “Robert, meet my new friend Frank Moulton, and I believe you already know her wife Katie.” 

 

Robert whips round to face us at the sound of my voice, his face a blotchy red. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it, looking from Katie to Frank and shaking his head. 

 

“Oh Robert, are you furious? Don’t be angry with me. Let’s sit down, and I’ll tell you everything.” 

 

“All right,” Robert agrees stiffly. 

 

Katie takes the sofa, and Frank perches on the arm between Katie and Robert, looking hard at Robert who still has the air of a pot about to boil over. Robert takes the client chair, and John and I sit discreetly in our armchairs by the hearth. 

 

Katie takes a moment to collect herself before she begins her story, “Frank and I met our first year of college at Vassar, and we hit it off. Well. We fell in love. The thing was though, that Frank’s parents didn’t approve. They didn’t want us to be together. It was pretty miserable to deal with that, but we were. We were really in love. 

 

“Frank had the idea at the end of our second year that we should get married, so after the school year was over, we did. The idea was that we’d go and spend a few weeks with our families and gently let them know we’d done, and then we’d come back to New York and set up our household together. Anyway, I went back to Ohio and Frank went back to Connecticut, and it was only supposed to be for a little while but,” Katie’s voice thickens, and she halts. We all wait in silence for her to continue, but she seems unable. 

 

“And then I got hit by a car,” Frank says quietly. “I was in a coma for three weeks, and my family was pretty sure I wasn’t going to wake up.” 

 

“They told me she was dead!” Katie bursts out, “I came out to see her, and they told me she was dead.” 

 

John turns to look at me in horror, and I reach out and catch hold of her hand. 

 

Frank strokes Katie’s back and squeezes her hand, and when Katie is a little calmer, Frank picks up the story again, “When I did wake up, my parents wouldn’t let me see Katie. Wouldn’t let me have a phone to call her. Wouldn’t let me use a computer,” there’s a heartbreaking wheedling note in Frank’s voice, an unspoken plea for forgiveness that has so clearly already been granted. “It took a really long time until I was well enough to be able to do things that they didn’t help me do.”

 

“First thing she did was find me,” Katie says proudly. 

 

“Took long enough. I found out you were living in London, but even after I was in London, I didn’t manage to track you down until I saw the notice of intent in the newspaper. It named the church where the wedding would take place, so I figured I could catch up to her there and. I don’t know. At least she should know I’m still here. So on the day of, I slipped into the church just before Katie arrived and sat down in the back. She sailed right past me up the aisle, and she didn’t see me until she was at the altar.” 

 

“I thought she was a ghost!” Katie lets out a shaky laugh. “For a second. And then I wondered if I ought to stop the wedding and make a scene in the church, but I looked at Frank, and she shook her head. I saw her writing, and I knew she was writing me a note, so when I came to her pew in the recessional, I dropped my bouquet, and she slipped me a note when she handed it back and told me she’d follow me and wait outside, and I could come out and talk as soon as I could.

 

“So I went to the reception, and I could hardly sit still in the car, because I knew Frank was following along behind us. And I went into the hall when we got there, but I couldn’t just. Have a party, knowing Frank was out there waiting for me.” Katie gestures to Frank, “That’s my wife!” 

 

“Yes, well,” Robert smiles tightly, “I sort of know what you mean.” 

 

Katie leans toward Robert imploringly, “I’m so sorry, Robert! I know I should have just come clean then and there, but I. I was so embarrassed to have to tell you something like that in front of all those people. I just wanted to slip off back to the States, but Sherlock here found us this morning, and she told us that you were looking for me, and she helped me understand how unfair it would be to the people who care about me to let them think I disappeared or that something horrible happened to me.” 

 

Robert’s grinding his jaw again. Unsurprising really, since it’s actually the inheritance she got off her grandmother that he’s most interested in, and he must see that flashing before his eyes, 

“Well, there’s that, I suppose,” 

 

I’m still holding John’s hand. Loosen my grip a little, but she doesn’t let go of me, “I arranged a little cake and some champagne. I thought we might-”

 

“No!” Robert rises, “That’s absurd! I might have to accept this farce, but I don’t have to toast to it.” 

 

John drops my hand to stand up also, just as Frank vacates her spot on the sofa to stand in front of Katie. Katie stands as well and leans past Frank, “I’m really sorry you feel that way, Robert. I suppose it’s asking too much to try to stay friends.”

 

“I suppose it is,” and without another word, Robert stalks off through door and clatters down the stairs, banging the front door behind him. 

 

Frank turns to John and me, “I think I heard something about cake?” 

 

“Oh yes! Just this way.” They all follow me into the kitchen. 

 

John pours champagne while I cut slices of cake, and when we’ve all got a slice and a glass, John looks at me slyly, “I think Sherlock should say a few words.”

 

“Me?!” 

 

“Well the brides don’t make a speech; it’s not tradition. That leaves you.”

 

Open my mouth to say it certainly doesn’t, but Katie and Frank tap eagerly on their glasses, so I stand with a fond groan and hold my glass aloft, “I don’t know why John thinks I’m qualified for this, because I’m very not. Well. Anyway. I think erm. You two, Katie and Frank, I think you’re probably the best embodiment I’ve ever seen of the paradox of love. I think love is both easy and impossible to have. Nearly impossible. The thing about love is that it’s easy to feel, it’s dead easy to feel. But it’s difficult to do. It is hard to perform love. And you’ve clearly got the feelings sorted out,” pause to let Katie and Frank simper at each other. “But I think you’re do-ers as well. I think you’re going to do the hell out of this marriage. Katie and Frank, congratulations on having found each other.” Charge my glass, “To doing!” 

 

And when they echo me, it may be just my fancy, though it may not be, that John’s voice rings out above all. 

 

…

 

“Do you think they’ll make it?” John’s sat in her armchair, nursing the last slice of cake, and I’m trying not to doze on the sofa. 

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Katie and Frank. Do you think they’ll stay married?”  

 

“John, I hardly know them.”

 

John has a little bite of cake, “Well yeah, but. You don’t really need to know people to know them. Not you.”

 

Shake my head, “There’re too many factors in this one. Obviously they love each other. They’re overjoyed to be reunited. But it isn’t going to be like they remember it being. They’ve both come through something really hellish. They’ve changed.” Shrug, “Maybe they can make it work. There’s no way to know. There are a million things that could go just wrong enough.” 

 

John somberly sucks icing off her fork, “I was hoping you’d say something like, ‘Of course it’s going to work, John! Didn’t you see their bootlaces?’”

 

Laugh reluctantly, “Do I go like that?”

 

John grins, “Yeah, you do sometimes.” 

 

We’re quiet. I’m thinking of what kind of hot drink I’d like before bed when John speaks again, “You don’t really. Believe in all that, then? People belonging together?”

 

Frown, unsure of where exactly this topic may have come from, “Me? Er. I think people. People like to believe they know how their lives are going to play out based on hints and impressions. And they don’t. They can’t. It’s too big. It’s too. Changeable. Life is flux. Limerence is. It can be fun, but it isn’t always meaningful, just because it’s strong.” 

 

“It’s the feeling  _ and  _ the doing. Like you said.” 

 

Smile at her, “‘Work is love made visible.’”

 

John’s face goes very soft, “‘The strings of the lute are alone, though they quiver with the same music.’”

 

Wriggle in surprise and John grins watching me, “John, you read Gibran?”

 

She nods, “Well, I peeped in your library bag. I thought it was all domestic toxins saturated in hand creme and types of alloys that are used in dental procedures. I wasn’t expecting to see poetry.” 

 

“Snoop.”

 

“You’ve rubbed off on me,” John’s eyebrows are triumphant. 

 

I wish she’d come nearer. 

 

“There you have me. I am hoping to teach you to be a more effective snoop. If you’ll let me.”

 

John stands up and stretches, then leans over the mantel to light the fire before turning back to me, “Well yes, obviously, I’ll let you.” 


	2. Chapter 2

“Guess what!” John trills as she enters the flat one wet April afternoon. 

 

Look her over carefully, “You got a job.”

 

John laughs delightedly and hangs her satchel and overcoat on the coat hook, “Tell me how you knew that!”

 

Tick the points off on my fingers as I list them, “You’re wearing mascara, which you hate because it gets on your glasses, and your shoes have a three inch heel, which hurts your feet, but you think those shoes are your smartest. Also I can see your portfolio sticking out of your satchel. You’ve been toting your CV about. Job interview. And you must have been made an offer at least, because this was your third interview, and you didn’t mention the first two to me.”

 

“How did you know it was my third?”

 

I grin, “Because you keep leaving yourself logged into your email on my laptop, so I get your calendar alerts. Tell me about the job!”

 

John sits down on the arm of the sofa nearest my feet and begins to remove her uncomfortable boots, “It’s at St. Katherine’s! Just locum work for now, but the money’s good, and they’re having me in three days a week for six weeks starting Monday.”

 

“John, that’s great!” 

 

John slides off the arm of the sofa to plop onto my feet and hugs my knees, “Isn’t it! I’m really pleased.”

 

Takes a beat to respond under these conditions, “I’m really pleased for you. I’ve got champagne chilling in the fridge; shall I just get it?”

 

John sits up, grinning, “Go on, then.”

 

Pop into the kitchen and come back in a moment with the bottle and two glasses. Sit down next to John and ease the cork out of the bottle, then pour out the champagne, “Congratulations, John.”

 

“Thanks!” We clink and sip, and John licks froth from her top lip, watching me fondly. 

 

“What?” I ask when she bites her lip against a smile. 

 

“You and your little celebrations. I love that you had the champagne all chilled and everything. If you’d lived a few centuries ago, you’d’ve been burned as a witch. All this miraculous prescience.”

 

I laugh, “So would you; you’re an OB-GYN.” 

 

John laughs as well, “I’m not so sure you aren’t a witch, actually.” 

 

Sip my champagne in lieu of schooling my expression, “I told you how I did it, John. It was very simple.” 

 

“I know, I know. Still I think there’s a bit of something extra about you. A bit of magic.”

 

I know my smile must be getting very silly. Rather embarrassing to be so susceptible, isn’t it, “You’re a  _ scientist _ , John. We’re both scientists.”

 

John only looks smug and pours me a little more champagne, “I don’t suppose you can teach magic.”

 

“John, I’m not-”

 

John bumps her shoulder lightly against mine, “Mmhm, suppose I’ll just have to soak it up through osmosis, then.”

 

…

 

“You’re really not going to take the case?” Gregson always hovers in the doorway when he visits Baker Street. He’s guilty and uncomfortable bringing police work to such an obviously domestic space, but John’s brought me home a nice cold from St. Kate’s, and it’s pissing rain, and I’m not going all the way to NSY or the library in all that just to tell him to piss off. 

 

Sniffle, “I’m really not.” 

 

“Could you sit properly, please?” Don’t bother to answer that except to continue hanging upside down off the sofa. “Why are you upside down, anyway?”

 

“To see if it will help with the post nasal drip,” Serenely brush a stray loc out of my eyes. 

 

“Why don’t you want to take the case?” Gregson asks helplessly. “We’re really. We could use your help. We’ve got our man, but we’ve no idea where the jewels are.”

 

“Actually you haven’t got your man, and I couldn’t care less where the jewels are. I don’t do jewel thieves. We’ve been over this.” 

 

Gregson huffs, “What do you mean we haven’t got our man? Arthur Holder was found on the scene with the coronet in hand. All we need is to get the location of the missing stones out of him, and it’s case closed. Should be an easy one for you. Plus there’s the reward.” 

 

Squirm onto my front and slither down the sofa to land on the carpet, “Don’t care about the reward. Don’t care about the jewels. Don’t care about helping rich old bastards find their baubles so they can lock them up tight in a safe or so that they can avoid the embarrassment of having their baubles stolen right out from under their rich old noses. Don’t care at all! Shut the door on your way out, will you?”

 

“Where’s the little one? You’re so much nicer when she’s around.” 

 

Cover my eyes with my hand, “I’m never nice. And I don’t know who you mean. Perhaps if you used her name…”

 

“Where is Doctor Watson?” Gregson asks through his teeth. 

 

“She’s away at work, being a doctor. She’s a  _ doctor _ ; she treats  _ patients, _ and she doesn’t exist to help you browbeat me into things I’ve already told you I’m not going to do.” 

 

“Well, when she gets in from  _ treating patients _ ,” Gregson answers in a broad imitation of me, “You might tell her that Arthur Holder’s going to prison because you wouldn’t get off your backside and clear his name, since you hate beryls or rich old men or whatever it is you were dribbling on about.”

 

Sit up and spring up onto the sofa, then over it and approach Gregson. I’m taller than he is, and he blanches and shrinks back toward the doorway, but I draw nearer until we’re toe to toe, “I wonder,  _ Inspector _ , if you’ll ever stop using your incompetence as a bludgeon against me to try and force me to do your job, since you haven’t got the imagination, the integrity, or the brains to do it yourself?” 

 

“Y-you want to step back, now,” Gregson stammers, one hand on his belt. “Step back, now. There’s no need for-”

 

“If you are uncomfortable in my home,” lean past him to push the door open wider. “You may leave it.” 

 

Gregson backs out of the opening, “Take the case, Sherlock. Just take it.” 

 

Shut the door in his face, but my heart is still racing. Infuriating being so transparent, so exploitable to such a puny soul. I loathe being danced about like that, but. He has me. 

 

…

 

“Are you all right?” Sherlock started when I put my hand on her elbow, so I dropped it, “You can sit down, if you like. I’ll get the coffee, if you don’t like to queue for it.”

 

Sherlock shook her head and linked an arm through mine, “No, no, that isn’t it. I’d just--” She paused to sneeze into her opposite shoulder, and I dug in my pockets and handed her a tissue, “Thanks.” She wiped her nose and tucked the tissue away, “I just don’t want to do this case. It’s fucking boring. I don’t care what happened to the stupid coronet, and tying myself in knots to find three lumps of carbon is pointless, and Gregson  _ knows _ it’s pointless, or he wouldn’t threaten to ruin an innocent kid’s life to try and force me. I hate being forced!” 

 

Sherlock sighed, and I patted her arm, “How can I help?”

 

“You are helping,” Sherlock rested her head briefly on my shoulder. “Thanks for coming along.” 

 

“I should send you home to bed to look after that cold, really.” 

 

“Bossy,” Sherlock said fondly. “Would you mind-”

 

“Sure, what’ll you have?”

 

“Whatever you’re having; I don’t mind. I just need caffeine.”

 

“Almond milk mocha latte, then? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather sit? I really don’t mind.” 

 

Sherlock curled her arm a little more about mine, “I wouldn’t. I’m fine. Thanks.”

 

…

  
  


“Well that’s that!” John says cheerily as we step into the flat. “She’s all sewn up now.” 

 

“Mmph,” sort of levitate over to the sofa and flop into it face down. Squirm out of my coat and toss it onto the floor, then feel slovenly when John comes and hangs it up on the coat rack. Sit up, “I’m going to order every single veggie curry from Saffron Thai and then watch Beyonce videos until I fall asleep on the sofa. Want to join me?”

 

“Can’t, petal, sorry,” John hangs her own coat. “I’ve got a. Dinner thing. I mentioned it.”

 

“You didn’t. What sort of dinner thing?”

 

“Didn’t I? I thought I did,” John is already making for the stairs up to her bedroom. “Just a little date thing with someone I knew from uni. Martin. Martin Morstan. I’m sure I mentioned it.”

 

“I’m sure you didn’t,” start to sag into horizontalness on the sofa again. “I’d have remembered something so. Alliterative.”

 

John laughs, one foot on the bottom step, “Save a little Beyonce for me, will you?”

 

Bury my face in a sofa cushion, “No promises.” 

 

John laughs as she mounts the stairs, and at the top of them, her bedroom door opens and shuts gently. 

 

Have cunningly arranged to be on the phone with the Thai restaurant when John comes downstairs to leave for her date, but she pats my foot on her way out anyway, “Won’t be late, but good night Sherlock, in case I don’t see you.” 

 

Wave over my shoulder, and John doesn’t even seem to notice how childish I’m being. 

 

…

 

Wander down to Hudson’s after I’ve eaten my fill. Door’s unlocked, so I just go in, “Hudson?”

 

They don’t call back, but I find them in the kitchen, chopping up apples for their pigeons, “Oh, hullo luvie! You look glum. Where’s John?”

 

“She’s on a date,” steal one of the apple slices and regret it, as it’s mealy and warm in my mouth. “Why does everyone say that?”

 

“A date?” Hudson looks up from chopping and nearly takes off their finger, “I thought you-”

 

“We aren’t. Mind the knife!”

 

Hudson puts the knife down and scrapes the chopped apple bits into a bowl, “But I came in the other day, and she was practically in your lap. Have you split up?”

 

My face goes a little warm, “That. Her shoulder ached; I was only giving her a shoulder rub. I’m taking it slow.”

 

“Mmhm, taking it glacial if you ask me.” Hudson opens the fridge and gets out a head of cabbage, which they begin to shred into the bowl, “Help me with this.”

 

Pull a leaf off the cabbage and tear it to bits, “It isn’t glacial; it’s chivalrous! She’s. Vulnerable at the moment, and we’re already living together. I’m trying not to impose. Don’t want to rush her.” 

 

“Well, lovie, you might be overthinking it a bit. Your sweetheart’s on a date with someone else now, because she’s got no idea you fancy her.” 

 

Crossly, “How could she possibly have no idea?”

 

Hudson bounces an eyebrow, “With all these romantic shoulder rubs you’ve been offering, eh?”

 

Sigh patiently, “I’m not sure why I came down here.” 

 

“To feel sorry for yourself. I’m going up to see the girls. Help yourself to the tea tin, then go back to your flat, put on some Moz, and have a little pity party. And then buck up. Self-pity is so dull, isn’t it?”

 

“You give horrible advice. And I don’t like Morrissey.”

 

“But  _ I’ve _ got a girlfriend. And if you say that again, I’ll stop sharing my reefer with you, you substandard homosexual,” Hudson gives me a little kiss on the cheek. “Cheer up, luvie. You’ll sort it out.” 

 

And with a parting pat on my back, they’re off up the backstairs to the roof, with their bowl of fruit and veg. Open the tea tin, take the fattest of the rolled joints and pocket it, then go back up to my flat. 

 

Try and play for a bit, but what spills out is so sad, it near brings a tear to my eye. Feel silly and then cross for feeling silly for feeling sad. Have a long, hot shower, standing under the spray, waiting for the heat to soak into me, loosen the knot in my shoulders. Don’t quite get as loose as I’d like. Get out of the shower and into pyjamas and dressing gown, then go out onto the widow’s walk for a breath of fresh air. Well. In a manner of speaking. 

 

Pull Hudson’s joint out of my dressing gown pocket, light it, and take a drag. Down in the street, I can hear scraps of conversation as someone, or rather two someones are coming up the road toward the flat. It’s John. John and her date. Mark? Stub out the glowing end of the joint and lean against the railing to listen. 

 

“...something about coming up for a drink back at the restaurant? It’s still early.” It’s nearly eleven! He’s kept her out more than four hours, which is quite enough in my opinion. Squint down at him and wish he’d step under the same streetlamp that is lighting John to her advantage. Is he handsome? What is handsome, anyway? He’s tallish. Much taller than John. I think I’m taller than he is, though. I am quite tall. Does tall matter?

 

“Oh gosh,” John looks about her. “Maybe another time. My erm. Sherlock’s got a cold, so she’s probably asleep on the sofa, poor thing.” 

 

“Ah, Sherlock of course. Right. Wouldn’t want to disturb Sherlock,” something jocularly rueful in his tone that annoys me. 

 

“Well. Good night, Martin. Lovely catching up with you.” John hitches her handbag up her shoulder. She’s thinking of pulling out her keys, but she doesn’t want to hint so strongly. Hint away, John; this one’s a bit of a clot, I think. 

 

“Lovely, yeah.” Martin leans in, and John turns slightly to offer her cheek. That’s heartening, though really she need not offer him any part of her face. He drops a brief kiss on her cheek, “Good night.” 

 

Martin watches John into the flat, then turns and walks off toward the tube station, once the door is shut behind her. The flat door opens a moment later, and John moves quietly through the dark sitting room and mounts the stairs equally quietly. Hear her bedroom door shut, then a light comes on in her bedroom, and presently John steps out onto the widow’s walk next to me. 

 

“Evening, Batman. Is this a snooping lesson?”

 

Can’t help smiling at that, “I wasn’t expecting you to have a social engagement on that particular bit of pavement, actually.” 

 

John smiles, “And what brings you out on this rather shit spring evening, mm?” Hold up Hudson’s joint, and John gives my elbow a little shove, “Oh, Sherlock! You’ve given up smoking, and you were doing so well!”

 

“God, John! You’ll make me drop it! It isn’t smoking smoking. It’s only weed.” 

 

“That still counts,” John answers severely. Or mock-severely. Difficult to tell in the dark. 

 

“So you don’t want some, then?” Bring the joint to my lips and click my lighter enticingly. 

 

John grins, “Go on, then.” Light it and take a quite shallow hit, as this is not a coughy situation, then pass it to John. Her hit is a little more confident, and when she passes the joint back to me, I put it out and return it to my pocket. We stand quietly together for a few minutes. John’s arm bumps mine, and she turns to look at me, “It’d be nicer if there were a bit more starlight, don’t you think?”

 

Look out at the rather sparse night sky, “There’s Venus, at least.” I point. 

 

John’s gaze follows my pointing finger, “Yeah, Venus at least. There she is.” When we fall quiet again, I think for sure, she’ll go back through her bedroom window. But she doesn’t. “I missed you tonight. How was Beyonce?”

 

“Ms Knowles was unavoidably detained.” 

 

John laughs, “Pity. You could have used me to entertain you, I suppose.” 

 

“I suppose I could have.”

 

When John’s arm bumps mine again, she links our elbows, and my earlier nerves seem so silly. Turn my head toward her and catch a little of that gentle cocoa butter John-fragrance on the damp breeze, and I feel calm and right and easy. She’s here with me, after all. We have time. 


	3. Chapter 3

Wake in the pitch black, sweating into my twisted up duvet and sit up to untangle myself. There’s an odd sound that seems to be coming from the bathroom. A high, mechanical sort of whirring, like an electric toothbrush only fainter. But the bathroom door is standing ajar, and it’s dark and empty inside. Kick off my bedclothes and get up to investigate. 

 

Inside the bathroom, the sound is stronger and seems now to be coming from John’s bedroom. Stand there for a moment, my sleep-stupid brain trying to make sense of what I’m hearing, then there’s a sharp sort of gasping sigh and the creak of bedsprings. I clap my hand over my mouth to muffle my answering squeak of surprise and scuttle back to my bedroom, dive onto my bed, and pull the bedclothes over my head, as if John’s orgasm is a physical entity that might have followed me back to my room and be standing beside my bed, waiting for me to explain myself. 

 

Squirm in embarrassment under the covers and press my hot face to my cool pillow. Feel as if I need to do something. Pace or play or. Apologise? But it’s the middle of the night, and I can only rock under the blankets and drum my feet against my mattress until the panicky feelings fade. 

 

…

  
  


Cold is worse in the morning. Descend into the kitchen, wrapped in my duvet with a box of tissues tucked under my arm. John fusses and makes tea and toast and lends me the heating pad I gave her and brings me my library bag on the sofa. It’s lovely. And then she leaves. Less lovely. Suppose she’s got to make a living. Doctoring people. John is a doctor. Very admirable. But the sofa’s boring without her. Even when I’m ill and tired. 

 

Try and play, but my nose keeps dripping and nearly splashing on my violin, which makes me nervous. And the music is still sad. Get up and get dressed and go to the library, because I may as well. 

 

Pearl isn’t at the desk, but I find her in the stacks. 

 

“Hello Sherlock,” she whispers brightly. “Oooh, you look a bit gloomy. All right?”

 

Sit down on her step ladder, “I’ve got a cold.” 

 

“Yeah, you need a tissue. Your nose is doing something.” 

 

Find a tissue in my jacket and attend to myself, “I think that look works for me, actually. I’m experimenting with it.”

 

Pearl smiles politely at my joke, “Anything on? Looking for anything in particular?”

 

“Not really.” Rest my head against a shelf. There’s a Gibran volume just next to me. Pull it out and flip through it idly til my eye lands on the bit John quoted from to me the other day.  _ The strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.  _ From the passage _ _On Marriage_.  _ Hadn't remembered that when she recited it _.  _ Sigh. Glance at Pearl and see she’s watching me with a funny sort of smile. “What?”

 

“Are you sure you aren’t looking for anything in particular, Sherlock? This can keep; I’ll help you find it, if you like.” 

 

“I’m not.” Shut the book and slip it back into the gap it left on the shelf. 

 

“To the left,” Pearl says, and I move the book as instructed. 

 

“Pearl,” I hesitate. 

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Are there. Erm. If a person wanted to.”

 

Pearl half-laughs, “Is this another poison? Don’t be shy; we’ve been through this before.”

 

“No! Not a poison. But er.” Pluck out another Gibran book, then put it back without opening it. “If a person wanted to. Stimulate an epiphany in another person. How might. Are there erm. Books for that?”

 

“Stimulate a what?”

 

“Never mind!” Hide my heating face against the crook of my arm, but Pearl doesn’t seem to notice my embarrassment. 

 

“I was actually reading about the Greek Muses the other day--you know the nine Muses? The goddesses that stimulated artistic creation and discovery?--well it wasn’t only music and poetry and dancing that they inspired. They also had Urania, the Muse of astronomy. Isn’t that lovely? That they put art and science in the same sort of slot? It made me think of you.” 

 

“Yeah, it is lovely,” pick at a loose thread in the seam of my coat. 

 

Pearl laughs, “And Plato actually called Sappho the tenth Muse. Which also made me think of you.”

 

That makes me laugh also, “Sherlock Holmes, everyone’s favourite lesbian.” 

 

“Exactly.” Pearl pulls her curly pink hair into a loose knot on the back of her head and taps the stepladder, “Off this, please. I need up.” 

 

Stand up and watch her shelve books onto the top shelf, “How are things with Alice?”

 

“Good! Yeah, really good. I went into her bookshop the other day, and she put a paper rose in my Rupi Kaur. Told me she folded it herself.” 

 

“That’s really sweet.” 

 

Pearl smiles, “Yeah. Isn’t it?”

 

“Do you ever. Do you wonder sometimes if she might. She might meet someone else?”

 

Pearl snorts, “Bit personal.” 

 

“Yeah, sorry. Just wondering.” 

 

“We’re on the same page,” Pearl says confidently. “I’m not worried.” 

 

“Well. That’s good.” 

 

Pearl climbs off the stepladder and eyes me shrewdly, “I was worried a little while back, but my sister gave me a rose quartz pyramid, rose quartz to attract love and the pyramid shape for stability, and-”

 

“I’ve got to go home!” that was too loud. Lower my voice, “I’m just really not feeling well, and I think I’d better go and lie down. John told me to rest, so I think I’ll just. I’ll go and do that. See you later? See you later.”

 

“Er, okay,” Pearl calls after me in her carrying librarian’s whisper. “Bye.” 

 

…

 

**_Excerpt from the accessibility transcript for Episode 55 of The Doctrix Is In (originally uploaded May 15) provided courtesy of the-moon-loves-the-sea_ **

 

...Thank you so much for watching, everyone! A very extra special thank you to my wonderful friend Sherlock, who composed and recorded the new credits music for the show! That’s right, not only is she a cracking good detective, she’s also a genius freelance musician and composer. I’m not sure she’s taking bookings at the moment, but if you want to hear more of her music, you can visit her new channel! I’ve just convinced her to set one up so that she can share her music more easily with her adoring public! She’s holmesonviolin, and you can see there videos of some of her past performances and hear her fantastic arrangements of RNB songs. Well mainly Beyonce and Solange so far. She’s like a Knowles-Knowles person. Well, who isn’t! No one I want to meet, ha. All right, I’m getting rambly. That’s what happens when I go off script. Okay er. As ever, I’m John, and this has been The Doctrix is In!

 

…

 

“Shit,” I said as we stopped short outside the gala we needed into. “They’ve got an assistant person at the door.” 

 

“I thought they would,” Sherlock said serenely. “Shall we try the crying PA?” 

 

“Sure! Who do you want to be? The weeper or the screamer?”

 

“I’ll weep. He’ll feel sorry for me because I’m tall and fragile. Trade jackets with me; I can’t be your assistant in a leather jacket,” Sherlock was already shrugging off her jacket. I took off my pea jacket and we swapped. “Thanks,” Sherlock rearranged her loc updo a bit. “Ready to scream?”

 

“When you are.” 

 

She grinned, “Excellent! After you, then. Oooh, wait! Can I borrow your specs?”

 

I laughed, “Absolutely not. I need them to see.”

 

“All right, all right. Just an idea. I can do without. Go on, then. I’m just behind you.” 

 

Sherlock is really an amazing actor. We walked up to the gala guard, Sherlock demur at my elbow. She was diminutive and somehow oversized simultaneously. Her entire carriage and manner of walking changed, and it was hard work to stride ahead and take no notice of her. 

 

“Name, please?” murmured the attendant, holding up his clipboard when we reached the door. 

 

“Dorothea Smith with Smith and Kirk,” I answered, rather brusquely. 

 

The attendant consulted his list, then looked up at me with a sort of embarrassed grimace, “I do apologise, madam. Do you happen to have your invitation with you?”

 

I clicked my fingers without looking at Sherlock, who had already begun to pat the pockets of the pea jacket, “Show him the invitation, Penelope!”

 

“I have it just…” Sherlock’s patting became more frantic. “I know I just had it; it must be right here; just one moment…”

 

I turned to her, “Quite quickly, Penelope. I need to speak with James before he goes, and he was leaving early.” 

 

Sherlock looked up from her patting, stricken, “I think I’ve left it in the taxi,” she whispered. 

 

“You left it in the taxi?!” 

 

“It’s probably just down the end of the road,” she offered. “I could run after it, and-”

 

I put my hands on my hips and leaned toward her, “This is your solution? Running after a taxi? Penelope, you absolute dolt, when will you ever learn to use your brains?”

 

“I’m sorry, Ms Smith, but if I hurry-”

 

“It is too late to hurry, in fact it is too late for anything! Last week, it was leaving my dry cleaning on the tube and only Tuesday, you sent the samples to the office in Venice instead of Milan! And now you’ve put me in the position of standing here like an idiot, and you’ve put this poor man in the position of having to ring the organisers and check that I’m actually meant to be here!”

 

Sherlock cowered, “I’m sorry-”

 

“It’s fine,” whispered the attendant, very red in the face. “Please go in, it’s fine.”

 

I smiled at him, sweet as anything, “Thank you so much.” I walked in, and Sherlock scampered after me, dabbing actual tears on the sleeve of my pea jacket. “You can cry on cue?” I asked after we were out of earshot. 

 

“These are real, actually,” said Sherlock taking my arm. “That was extremely mean, well done.”

 

“You were brilliant! That was perfect. And you look excellent in my jacket, actually.”

 

Sherlock grinned and lowered her chin, “You always say that.” 

 

…

 

“Have you seen him yet?” John’s scanning the party guests just as I am, though she doesn’t even know what he looks like. 

 

“Not yet, I’ll probably have to sweep the room.” 

 

John pushes her glasses up, “Do we, er? Is it safe? Do you need to phone Gregson or something?” 

 

“No, it’s fine. I only want to look at him. We can’t-”

 

“Oh my god!” John half-turns and grasps my sleeve. 

 

“What?” link arms with her and look about. 

 

“Martin’s here. Oh, he’s coming over oh my god!”

 

Hiss in impatience, “What is  _ he _ -” 

 

Am cut short by the arrival of Martin, who smiles approvingly at John, “Hi babe! I thought you couldn’t make it?”  He hugs her. 

 

She doesn’t let go my arm, “This is actually the reason I couldn’t make it! Is this your boring work do that you wanted me to come along to?”

 

“It is!” He looks between us, still smiling but bemused, “If you’re not here for me, how is that you’re er. Here?”

 

“It’s for a case,” John glances at me confidentially. 

 

“Oh, then you must be Charlotte!” Martin looks at me for the first time. 

 

Shake my head, “Sherlock.”

 

“Hmm?” Martin cups his ear and leans in.

 

Slowly and distinctly, “My. Name. Is. Sher. Lock.” 

 

“Ohh, sorry Sherlock! Oooh, that’s interesting, isn’t it? What sort of a name is Sherlock?”

 

“One that my mother found beautiful, presumably. John, I’ll have a look around. See you back here?”

 

John releases my arm reluctantly, “I’ll be here, then.” 

 

…

 

Quarter of a successful hour later, I find John where I left her, Martin stubbornly clinging to her side, holding two glasses of wine. 

 

“Did you find him?” John asks in a low, eager tone. 

 

“‘Course I did. I only needed a look at him, anyway. Well specifically his earrings. You remember, John. This is not the place to discuss it. Shall we?”

 

“Oh are you going?” Martin looks back and forth between us. “I was sure I could convince you to dance with me before you left, babe. I’ll be so dull without you; this thing’s such a bore.”

 

“Well, if we’ve got to carry on with the case,” John looks at me. “Have we, Sherlock?”

 

Feel suddenly as if I am someone’s mum being petitioned for a curfew extension, “I suppose there isn’t much else to do this evening.”

 

“I could sneak away now, if you’re game for a nightcap,” Martin smiles at John. 

 

“We’re not really bar people, though, are we Sherlock?” John looks at me. 

 

“Not in our leisure hours,” still feeling very mum-ish somehow. Wish I had my own jacket on. Put my hands in the pockets of John’s. 

 

“That’s fine with me! We don’t have to go to a pub.” Still can’t decide if Martin’s handsome. I was right about being taller than he is, though. His tie is nice. He is well-groomed I suppose. Clean shaven, closely cropped hair, manicured eyebrows. He smiles a lot. His fingernails could use a bit of work. Frustrating not to know what to look for. 

 

…

 

Martin is on the sofa in our sitting room. I am sitting in my chair by the fireplace, so John has the choice of which of us she’d like to sit with. I think perhaps I’d rather not know, so go off into the kitchen to see how she’s getting on with the drinks. 

 

John is looking in the pantry when I find her, “Should we have snacks, do you think? We’ve got these nut thins from Eden and those little onion things in the freezer if we want to bake them.”

 

“Snacks?” rummage in the drawers for the wine key, since at least it is something to do, and I very do not know what I am meant to be doing. 

 

John looks round at me, “Are you tired?” 

 

Consider that, “Well…”

 

“I could take him up to my room, if you’d ra-”

 

“No! I’m fine, not tired. It’s fine. Nut thins should be okay. They go with er. Cabernet.” 

 

John laughs, “Am I being a bit? I’ll try and. You know.”

 

Really no idea what she’s getting at, “I think you’re all right.” Find the wine key and sink the pointy bit into the cork on the bottle John’s put out.

 

“I think I’m still a bit excited from the case. Difficult to change gears, you know? This isn’t what I was expecting.”

 

“No, nor was I.” 

 

John smiles, “Nice to have company, though, isn’t it? We never have company.”

 

Not used to John asking me questions I don’t know how to answer, so decide it was rhetorical and only work on the cork, while John shakes a handful of nut thins onto a little plate and turns a squidgy cheese out of its foil packet next to the crackers.  

 

John carries the plate out to the sitting room, and I follow with the wine. 

 

Martin brightens when John enters, and he raises his chin toward her, “Hello darling!” He draws her nearer by the shoulder when she bends to offer him crackers and kisses her. Wish he wouldn’t pull on her shoulder like that. Little tingle of sympathetic discomfort watching. 

 

Go and stand by the fireplace and pour myself a drink and feel sulky and out of sorts and distantly panicky. I think? I am sometimes able to be easy and charming, but those bits of my brain seem to be behind some sort of avalanche, and I cannot get to them. 

 

“So Sherlock,” booms Martin in that jocular way men adopt when humouring women they are not attracted to, “You’re a detective.” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“I didn’t know there were still private detectives. How did you come to be one?”

 

I look at John. She perches herself on the arm of the sofa near Martin and nibbles a cracker. 

 

"I'm a  _consulting_ detective. I invented the job."  Sip a little wine, “It was Vic’s idea, actually. My best friend Victor Trevor. I solved something for him and his dad, and he said he reckoned I could make a living like that, since I was so handy at it.”

 

“Victor Trevor? I’ve never heard you mention him,” John crosses the room to avail herself of the wine. “When was this?”

 

Shrug, “Years ago. God, more than ten years ago now; I’m getting old. It was when we were at uni. We’re not best friends anymore. He wanted to marry me, so.” 

 

From the sofa Martin laughs, “Something wrong with that? Marrying your best friend sounds lovely to me.”

 

Raise an eyebrow, “Well he’s gay, and so’m I, so I’d say yeah, not a match made in heaven. He got really. Upset. When I said that to him, though. Had a bit of an argument about it.” 

 

John takes a gulp of her wine, “He wanted you to be his beard? Jesus. Some people are determined not to lose anything for asking, aren’t they.”

 

“Well. Not exactly. In fairness to Vic, he didn’t know he was gay at the time. Not until I pointed it out.” 

 

Martin pauses in wedging a cracker into the cheese and looks up at me, “How could you know if he didn’t know?” 

 

Try hard not to glance at John, “I notice things. I did know him quite well.”

 

“Still,” Martin persists. “Is it really your prerogative to just  _ notice  _ things like that, though? You can’t just assign people an identity to suit yourself.” 

 

Set my glass down on the mantel with a sharp little tap, “Well, it’s my prerogative to be as uncooperative a lesbian as I fucking well like and not marry a gay guy at age nineteen just because he asked!”

 

“All right, Sherlock,” John murmurs, reaching out to stroke my elbow. 

 

“Last I heard, he runs an inn in Devon with his husband, if that’s gay enough for you!” I add. 

 

Martin holds his hands out, like I’m a runaway horse that might trample him, “Okay, mate, all right. No offense meant.” 

 

Squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and draw a deep breath, then turn to John, “Actually I think I am tired. I’ll go up. You lot have the sitting room.” 

 

“Okay petal. Good night.” Hate when she looks worried at me like that, but she edges closer and rises up on her toes to brush a kiss on my cheek, “See you in the morning, I suppose.” 

 

My face flares hot, and my brain goes even more staticky. I would like to kiss her back. I would like to say something calm and polite and perhaps even pleasant and affectionate. But it’s all I can do to nod stiffly and get myself across the room, up the stairs, and shut myself into the dark safety of my bedroom. 


	4. Chapter 4

“Are you a bit cross with me?” I asked one morning as Sherlock set a plate of fried eggs on the table in front of me. 

 

Sherlock looked at the plate, “You did say over medium?”

 

I laughed nervously, “Not the eggs.” I tucked into them, “The eggs are perfect actually.” 

 

Sherlock sat down next to me, “I’m not cross with you.” 

 

“Okay.” I had another bite of eggs, “You’re quiet lately.” 

 

“Am I?” She shook her head, “I’m just tired. Sorry, don’t mean to be gloomy.”

 

“Don’t apologise. I only meant to see if I could help.” 

 

She squeezed my elbow, “Thank you. You do help. You always help me, John.”

 

I fiddled with the sugar bowl and added a bit too much sugar to my coffee, “I’m mainly just moral support.”

 

Sherlock looked surprised so that for a moment, her dreamy expression went quite clear, “There’s nothing insignificant about moral support, John. It’s everything. I don’t know how I did without you before, honestly.”

 

I hesitated, “You. I think you’re not yourself lately?” I waited for Sherlock to answer, but she only looked at me, so I continued, “If you’re sad about something in particular, erm I’d be happy to talk, and I’m right here. Hello.” 

 

Sherlock half-smiled, “I’m sorry, John. I’ll try and cheer up.” 

 

I shook my head, “That isn’t what I mean! Ooh, sorry that was a bit noisy. Don’t mean to shout. I’m trying to say, I’m not annoyed with you for being sad. Only if I can help, do let me. Please.” 

 

Sherlock turned her head, and I thought at first that she was offended, then I realised with a little shock that she was holding back tears. She turned back to me with a watery smile and reached out to press my hand, “Thank you, John. Really.”

 

Impulsively, I raised her hand and kissed it, “Of course. Anything you need, Sherlock. I’m here.” 

 

…

 

I have been waking with music in my fingers and my brain and my skin. It wells up in me, rushes through me like a river. I can scarcely play it fast enough. Can scarcely transcribe it. John likes it. Loves it, actually. Comes to sit near me, and watch me with starry, adoring eyes. Sometimes she applauds when I pause. The way she did the day we met. Equally arresting every time.

 

Am so wrong footed these days. So embarrassed. 

 

I know, and John doesn’t. I’ll burst with it, soon I think. 

 

I know, and she doesn’t. I know. And she doesn’t know. 

 

Perhaps she’d say there’s nothing to know. How can there be nothing to know? That can’t be right. She sits so near me on the sofa. Crowds me, really. I say crowds. As if I mind. She takes my arm. Sometimes my hand. She has kissed me ten more times since that first time, only a week and a half ago. As if something’s come uncorked in her, and she can’t stop herself anymore. A storm of kisses, rushing through John Watson, as my music courses through me. 

 

Mates don’t long to kiss each other, John. Kiss good night is not ordinary flatmate behaviour. So I might say. This isn’t the sort of thing it’s my prerogative to notice. What’s the difference between friends and lovers, anyway? Stupid question. It isn’t my imagination! I  _ know  _ the difference between friends and lovers. There is an agonising fucking universe between friends and lovers. 

 

It shouldn’t be agonising. We should have time. Once she kissed my hand, and it was so sweet, it made my chest ache. I could be nourished enough for the time being on such delicate unfurlings. Why would I try and pick fruit when the blossoms are only just bursting into bloom? Why would I race past spring for summer? I love these intermediacies with John. I should love them. I would love them. But they don’t mean what they should mean. They don’t mean what they did mean. 

 

Martin doesn’t need the spring. He doesn’t need unfurlings and tender hand kisses and gentle revelations. He has his script laid out for him, and John already knows just what part she is meant to play. 

 

She loves me. It won’t be enough. 

 

…

 

Wake from a doze or half a dream on the sofa to John arriving home from work one rather sticky summer evening. Shift onto my side and silently watch her hang up her bag and take off her shoes. She comes to sit on the arm of the sofa, near my head, “Oh, you’re awake! I was just thinking how to wake you.” 

 

Smile up at her, “I’m awake.” 

 

“Are you in your pyjamas again or still?”

 

“Er. Still,” I confess. 

 

Little crease of concern develops between John’s eyebrows, “Are you sure you’re not ill, petal? This isn’t like you.”

 

“I’m fine, just. Calibrating.” 

 

“I suppose you warned me about that,” John slides off the arm onto the edge of the sofa. “Would you sit up, please? I’d like to feel your glands. I’m worried you’ve got mono or something.” 

 

Sit up, and John presses her cool, soft fingertips gently to my throat. Sigh under her hands and get a strong whiff of her creamy John smell. Can’t work out what it is. I’ve sniffed every single product she’s ever left in our bathroom, and none of them are quite right. Which is not exactly a reliable way to decide, since fragrances vary based on the body chemistry of the wearer. 

 

“Hmm,” John says presently. 

 

“Hmm what?” can’t help asking, even though I already know I’m not ill. 

 

John takes a little torch out of a drawer in the side table, “Feels normal. Open your mouth, please.” I obey and John shines the light down my throat and invites me to say Aaaah, which I do. My throat is also pronounced normal, and John finishes her examination with an unscientific hand on my forehead. “Nothing wrong with being healthy, I suppose,” she remarks, shutting the little torch away in the drawer. 

 

“Mm,” I agree, leaning back against the sofa. 

 

“Well! I’ve got you something,” John says brightly after a moment’s silence. 

 

“Really? What for?”

 

“Do you know what today is?” 

 

Think about that, “Friday?”

 

John laughs, “That isn’t what I meant. Today is the 29th of July, which makes it six months we’ve been living together!” 

 

“Only six months? Goodness.”

 

“I know! I can hardly remember what it was like before you,” John gets up and goes to dig in her bag. She pulls out a little paper parcel and holds it out to me. “Anyway, present!”

 

Stare at the parcel, “But I haven’t got you anything.”

 

“I didn’t expect you to, silly. I only picked it up from a charity shop near St. Kate’s. It’s been in the window for a month, and it was calling your name.” 

 

Tear open the parcel, which is actually only a paper bag. It’s a scarf. A silk scarf, soft as water, in a deep, magical shade of blue. When I unfold it, I see the centre is stained with a dark red rose. The rose is in full bloom, wide open and showing a bit of its golden heart, “It’s beautiful.”

 

John takes the corner of the scarf and winds it loosely about my neck, then ties it in a fat bow beneath my chin. “It’s beautiful,” she agrees. 

 

…

 

Am stood on the widow’s walk late one  night, considering going in to bed, when a cab pulls up, and John jumps out. She looks up as she approaches the front door, and her face lights when she sees me, “I’m coming up!”

 

“So I assumed,” I call back, and I can hear her laughing as she lets herself in. 

 

John bursts through her bedroom window a moment later, and there are traces of her laughter still in her eyes and her mouth, “I’m glad you’re still up.”

 

“I’m still up.” 

 

John slips an arm about my waist and tilts her head to offer me her cheek. I lean down to kiss it and thrill inside to feel it curve under my lips as her smile broadens. For a short time, we only stargaze in silence, side by side.

 

“Martin had his 35th birthday party tonight,” John says presently. 

 

“Did he?” 

 

“Mmhm. And,” John hesitates, lowers her chin demurely. “He asked me to marry him at the beginning of the party.” 

 

Nearly laugh aloud in relief. A misstep! He’s jumped the gun, spoken too soon, and John of course, will have gently sent this presumptuous buffoon on his way, “What, as if you’re his birthday present to himself?” Try and moderate my smile. 

 

John beams, “I’m so glad you’re pleased! I was afraid you wouldn’t be.” She raises her hand to push back one of her braids, and my guts turn to water when I spot the glint of a diamond ring on her finger. 

 

“You accepted him.”

 

John’s smile fades a bit, and she cocks her head, “Congratulate me?”

 

“John, you hardly know him!” 

 

“I’ve known him fifteen years,” John protests.

 

Shake my head, “No, you knew him fifteen years ago, and have been getting reacquainted over the last four months.”

 

“Well sometimes it doesn’t take long to know someone,” John counters. “Look at you and me!”

 

Suck in a deep breath and shuffle back half a step. She doesn’t mean to hurt me, “What about us?”

 

“We’ve known each other less than a year, and you’re my best friend in the world. It didn’t take me long at all to love you.”

 

She doesn’t mean to hurt me she doesn’t mean to hurt me she doesn’t mean to hurt me. 

 

Turn my head away from John and count my breaths until I imagine my voice is steady enough to speak, “John, I’m knackered. I think I’ll go to bed.” Brush away her arm that’s still wrapped round my waist and step back through my window without waiting for a reply. 

 

John’s voice comes small through my window as I shut it with shaking fingers, “Okay. Good night.” 

 

…

 

The morning after I became engaged to Martin, I woke to the sound of Sherlock’s violin. Watching Sherlock play is one of the best things in the world, but listening is very nearly as nice. I lay cosy in bed for several minutes listening to the lovely sound drift up the stairs. Sherlock’s music seems somehow to tell stories, and the piece she played started joyful, almost giddy. It steadied itself, growing mellower. Then seemed to sort of descend into melancholy. I couldn’t sit and listen long. I wanted to throw myself at that music, gather it up in my arms and kiss it and comfort it. 

 

I got out of bed and put on my dressing gown, Sherlock’s violin rising into a sweet, anguished pleading as I walked down the stairs. It stopped abruptly when I reached the last stair, and Sherlock’s instrument squawked when she pulled the bow off the strings. 

 

“John. I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

 

“I don’t mind.” I wanted to hug her, but I felt shy. There was something about her that morning, as if she might not care for that. 

 

Sherlock set her violin in its case, “Good morning, John.” 

 

“Good morning,” I came properly into the sitting room, still unsure of myself. 

 

Sherlock turned to me and opened her mouth to speak, then took her chair. I followed suit. She steepled her fingers and leaned forward, “John. I wanted to apologise. You were. You tried to share your happiness with me last night, and I was cold and rude, and. I’m sorry.” 

 

I shook my head, “It’s nothing.” 

 

“It  _ isn’t  _ nothing. You’re not nothing to me, John. You’re also my best friend in the world, and I. Shouldn’t have neglected the opportunity to tell you. I hope it. I hope I’ve been clear about that much, at least.” 

 

“Of course you have,” I said, wondering about that ‘at least.’ “Will you stand up with me? Be my witness, I mean? I won’t make you wear a dress, ha.”

 

Sherlock smiled a little stiffly, “When is the wedding?”

 

“End of the month, we talked about. We’re not really big fancy party people, so it’ll just be the registry office, but we still need to get the license and do the notice of intent before we can actually pull the trigger.”

 

“Hmm,” said Sherlock. “There was something else I wanted to speak to you about, John. I’ve been kicking around the idea of taking a trip, and I hope you might come with me? To celebrate your engagement,” she added. 

 

“Yes, I’d love to take a trip with you! When and where?” 

 

“I’m still sorting out the arrangements, but maybe next weekend? I had an idea we might get a train into Switzerland? Get a little fresh mountain air in us? See the views?”

 

“That sounds glorious. But you know me! When you like, where you like.” 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock smiled. “I do know you.” 


	5. Chapter 5

“I could do a murder for a hot chocolate,” John remarks companionably, resting her head against my shoulder. 

 

“I’m probably the wrong person to tell,” I answer, shifting my phone to my other hand. “Being a detective and all.”

 

“Mmmn, you wouldn’t turn me over to Gregson, would you?” John tucks her face briefly against my shoulder to yawn into it. Can feel the warmth of her breath through my jumper. 

 

“We’re out of London, now. He’s got no authority here. Anyway, I could just go and fetch you a hot chocolate. No murder required.”

 

“Actually, now I think on it,” John tries to stifle another yawn but muffles this one against my shoulder as well. “Now I think on it, what I want even more than a hot chocolate is a Sherlock to slouch on.” 

 

Smile, “How lucky for you.”

 

“Mmm, you won’t be offended if I just have a little sleep on you, will you? An hour into a railway journey, and I’m completely useless.” 

 

“Not offended but certainly bored.” Blow at her shut eyelids, “Wake up, John! ”

 

John scrunches her nose, “I’m not asleep yet, only I know I will be soon. I go to sleep on the train; it’s what I do. This kip is your destiny, Sherlock.” 

 

Laugh, “I reject that destiny. Stay up and talk to me! Let’s practice our German! Ist es vegetarisch?”

 

“Mmmf,” the little sleepy sounds she keeps making are adorable. I probably will let her go asleep, if she wants to. “German? Where’re we going again?”

 

“To a little village in Switzerland called Meiringen in the mountains. We’re staying at an inn called the Englischer Hof, because my mum knows the owner and got us a good rate.” 

 

“And what is there to do in Meiringen?” John scratches the nap of my trousers where they’re stretched over my knee. Try not to squirm. It tickles. 

 

Flatten her hand under mine, “Not much, actually, which is sort of the point. There’s hiking, if we’re not too lazy. We might have a picnic. And there’s a spa, which I’ve already booked us massages at. You know. Holiday things. Eat too much. Get pissed in the day time. Little excursions. There’s a waterfall that we might see, if you like. It kept coming up when I was researching. Apparently you reach it by funicular.”

 

John raises her head with a little laugh, “What on earth is funicular?”

 

“It’s like a cross between a roller coaster and a train.”

 

John digs her sharp chin into my shoulder, “A train and a roller coaster are too similar to cross them. That’s like saying a cross between a dog and a fox.”

 

“You can’t cross those, actually! They’re not similar enough. Dogs have far more-” 

 

John laughs, “Right, but we’re talking about metaphors, not zoology.” 

 

Bring up a picture of a funicular on my phone and show it to John, “Here. Now you let my metaphors alone; they haven’t done you any harm.” 

 

John slumps against me again, “You’ve brought your violin, haven’t you? You must bring it with you on our funicular excursion, and you can play it for me at the falls.”

 

“I suppose if you don’t mind going about with a ridiculous twat, I don’t mind looking like one.” 

 

“You won’t look ridiculous. You’ll look like a very obliging best friend who wants to make me a very happy bride.” Ah right. This trip is in celebration of her engagement, isn’t it. “And anyway, think about the acoustics.”

 

“Yes, I suppose that’ll be an experiment worth trying.” 

 

John shuts her eyes comfortably, “That’s my Sherlock.” Rest my head against hers with a little sigh, then start when she sits up, “Oh!” 

 

“Oh, what?”

 

“I’ll have that,” John takes my phone and swipes open the camera. “We haven’t got nearly enough of these.” John snaps several photos of us, then texts them to herself. 

 

“Are those for the scrapbook?”

 

“It’s a casebook, actually. And no, the casebook is for cases. These are just for general friendship purposes.” 

 

John settles against me again, and I rest my head on top of hers, “And what constitutes general friendship purposes?”

 

John yawns, “Oh you know. Put it in an ornate locket that I never take off and refuse to open. Put it in the centre of a chalk circle when you’ve been at the library for ages and I’m forced to use witchcraft to summon you back for tea. Facebook.”

 

Giggle helplessly into John’s hair, “Right, the usual.” 

 

John yawns even bigger, “Tell me good night, petal.”

 

“Maybe I won’t, and you’ll have to stay awake and talk to me.”

 

John smiles and shuts her eyes, “Whether you will or won’t, ready or not, here I go.” 

 

“Well then. Good night, John.” 

 

…

 

Sherlock seemed quite herself again on our trip. Vivacious and talkative and fascinated by everything. We hiked in the mountains. We walked into the village and bought boxes of meringues in the little shops there. We visited a museum, and Sherlock was inspired by the collection to compose a little tune that sounded like cuckoo clocks chiming. The innkeeper knocked on our door while she was playing it, and we thought we’d be told off, but she only asked Sherlock to play it in the lounge for the other guests. 

 

The morning before we were meant to return to London, I woke up to find Sherlock slipping back into our room, fully dressed in a dark suit and carrying her violin case. I watched her sleepily through my eyelashes for a few moments, as she carefully put her violin back in the cupboard and changed out of her suit into pyjamas. She glanced toward me several times, as if to check if I were still asleep, and something about her furtiveness made me a little uneasy. 

 

Presently Sherlock came and stood next to my bed and bent over me, “Good morning, John. Would you like to hear about your tells?”

 

I laughed and sat up, “Good morning, Sherlock. Do I really sham sleep that often that you've got a whole list?”

 

“I’m very quick at these things. Quick as a flash,” She flopped onto the end of my bed and petted my feet through the blankets, “So Miss Sneak, do you know what we haven’t done yet?”

 

“That’s Doctor Sneak to you. What haven’t we done yet? We’d best get our skates on, hadn’t we.”

 

“Oh indeed. We haven’t had our funicular excursion yet. Still fancy seeing the Reichenbach Falls? I’ll bring along my violin, as promised.”

 

“Oooh, yes! My serenade! Absolutely, yes! Love a good fall.” 

 

“Perfect!” Sherlock clapped her hands. “Let’s get dressed!”

 

…

  
  


Sherlock borrowed a small knapsack from the innkeeper and packed it with a picnic lunch. She’d bought a sun hat and shades on the day we arrived after a lecture from me about how dark skin does not prevent sun damage, and she tied on the hat with the blue scarf I’d given her and put on the shades. It was sort of an eccentric look, but on her it was very stylish and jaunty. Sherlock was too careful of my injured shoulder to let me carry the knapsack, though she did consent to let me hold her violin case while we waited for the funicular to come and carry us up the mountain to the falls. 

 

We clambered onto the funicular when it arrived, and Sherlock was quiet as we rattled along toward the falls. She seemed calm outwardly, so I don’t exactly know why I was nervous. Some intuition. Sherlock would say that I was observing and deducing without being consciously aware of it. 

 

“Music first or lunch first?” Sherlock asked when we finally reached a quiet viewing platform. 

 

“Oh music first, I should think,” I took the knapsack from Sherlock and sat down with it on a bench. 

 

“I should think I agree,” Sherlock said, unpacking her violin. She took off her hat and tucked her shades into her pocket, then shouldered her violin. The falls were louder than I’d have known to expect, so I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to hear the music over them. But Sherlock seemed to play somehow with the rushing water, as if she and they were part of some mighty orchestra. The music went on for a long time, and when she stopped, I clapped until my hands stung. Sherlock turned her piercing black eyes on me, as if she were finding me all out, but after a moment, she smiled sweetly and bowed, and I clapped even harder. 

 

Sherlock whipped off the scarf from her hat and dabbed her violin with it to make sure she hadn’t left any water droplets on it from the falls, before she put it away in its case. I thought she was about to speak, but she only tied the scarf round her neck, sat down on the bench next to me, and began to unpack the lunch. 

 

Something about eating out of doors, really sharpens the appetite, and Sherlock and I were quiet as we ate our fill. When we finished, I made to rise for a closer look at the falls, but Sherlock stopped me. 

 

“John, I need to speak with you. I’ve been meaning to for some time now, and I’ve left it right to the last minute.”

 

“All right,” the slippery frightened feeling in my middle was returning, and I wanted to cover my ears or walk right up to the falls so that I couldn’t hear her, but I made myself sit calmly and listen to Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock spoke slowly, her eyes lowered, “I. I’ve been. I had an audition this morning. To play with a touring group of musicians. It was actually. I was quite far along in the process. It was my final audition, and I was. Accepted.” 

 

“Oh! That’s wonderful! You had me worried, like you were going to tell me something awful! Is that why you brought me here, tricky? You’re so sly!”

 

Sherlock smiled briefly, then pressed her lips together, “It’ll be an eight week tour, and we start rehearsals together in Zurich in three days. Then from there, we’ll be travelling all over western Europe.”

 

I considered that, “So. You’ll fly back for a day for the wedding, then?” 

 

Sherlock did not raise her eyes, “No. I. Can’t go to the wedding.” 

 

“Sherlock!” I reached for her, then let my hand fall, “You have to! I. You’re my witness; I need you!” 

 

“You only need an adult to witness your marriage. Not too thin on the ground in London, if I recall correctly.” 

 

I was surprised by the coldness of her answer, “But I need  _ you _ , Sherlock. You. You’re my best friend, how am I supposed to get married without you?”

 

Sherlock looked away, out at the falls, and when she met my eye again, hers were wet, “I think you’ll find that since you’re not marrying me, you don’t need me to get married at all.” 

 

My own eyes were starting to prick, “You’re really not coming?”

 

She shook her head, “John, I really can’t.” 

 

“Well.” I stood up. 

 

Sherlock rose as well, her arms half-raised. I stepped into them and sniffed hard when she closed her arms around me. She patted my back, “Congratulations, John. Have a nice life.” 

 

I jerked back from her and looked up, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

She shrugged, “You’ll be gone, won’t you? When I get back. You’ll have moved out.” 

 

“Queen Anne Street! Not the moon! We’ll still be. It’s not going to change anything! Well, I mean. Not much.” 

 

Sherlock looked at me steadily, “You’re angry with me.”

 

I scrubbed away an audacious tear, “Oh yeah, well fucking spotted!” Sherlock flinched at my raised voice, and I could’ve kicked myself, “I just.” My tears were falling faster, and I didn’t bother to wipe them away, “I don’t understand. I thought. I don’t know! You tricked me into coming here, and now you’re talking like you don’t even want to be friends anymore, and I don’t know what’s going on!” 

 

Sherlock looked helpless, “You’re the one moving out.”

 

“So it’s all or nothing, is it? It’s your way or the highway?”

 

“No! That isn’t what I meant at all!” Sherlock had started to cry as well. “I’ll always. I’ll always want to be your friend, John. I only. I need a bit of time to adjust.” 

 

“To adjust to what?!” I shouted. 

 

Sherlock’s face shuttered, and she turned away and went and stood by the railing. I sat down on the bench and glugged a little water from our water bottle. I wiped my hot sticky face on a napkin and tried to clean the tear stains off my glasses. When I came up behind Sherlock and touched her elbow, she didn’t start like I thought she would. Only looked at me over her shoulder. 

 

“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” I told her. “I’m really going to miss you, but I’ll come see you when you get back, all right? You’ll be sick of me; I’ll be at yours so often.” I shifted my hand from her elbow to her hand and squeezed it, “I love you!” Sherlock’s face was soft and open, as if to make a good landing place for my words. But I knew she couldn’t hear me over the sound of the water, and everything I said was lost to the falls. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is going to be all right, I promise. Part 3 coming soon!


End file.
